Defeated
by ScopesMonkey
Summary: Sherlock calls Sam to help with a particularly problematic issue at 221B.  John has a good snicker.  Total nonsense fluff.


"I came as soon as I could," Sam said. "What's the matter?"

He was met, not with the dangerous enthusiasm he'd come to expect from the detective on a case, but with a kind of desperate exhaustion that made him stop in the act of shaking off his umbrella and sweep his eyes around the flat more carefully.

"Sherlock?" he asked, listening for any hint that someone else was there, inhaling deeply to check for noxious fumes that were a regular by-product of Sherlock's experiments.

"I need your help," the detective said and Sam was alarmed by the admission.

"With what?" he demanded.

Sherlock opened his mouth to reply but was interrupted by the clatter of feet on the stairs from the spare bedroom. Sam frowned; the sound was odd, like someone limping or moving slowly or –

A small blond girl appeared suddenly, grinning at Sherlock who dropped his head back with a groan.

"You're supposed to be sleeping!" he said as the toddler made a bee-line for a scatter of toys in front of the fireplace.

"No," the child said without any petulance, as though she was stating an indisputable fact.

"Jo!"

She ignored him, squatting down in front of her toys, selected one, then, hugging it close to her chest with one hand, clambered onto Sherlock's chair and set it on the back cushion.

"He's it," she said, glancing up at Sherlock who gave Sam a beseeching look.

"What the bloody–" Sam started, before cutting himself off. "What's going on?"

The child seemed to notice him for the first time and grinned suddenly, scrambling down from the chair and racing across the flat to stand at his feet, beaming.

"Hullo," she said.

"Hi," Sam replied, taken aback by the sudden turn of events. "Sherlock, what–"

"Sam, Josephine Walsh, Tricia Remsen's daughter. Jo, this is Sam Mitchell. He's–"

Josephine ignored Sherlock's introduction and reached up with one small, chubby hand to grasp Sam's fingers, tugging lightly as she turned away.

"Come play," she insisted.

"What?" Sam asked again, being towed through the flat still in his trench coat, dripping umbrella in hand.

"Play," Josephine sighed as though their ages were reversed and he needed clear, concise, simple instructions. "You have to hide and Baby John will find you."

"Baby John?"

"It's the bear," Sherlock said. "Please don't ask."

"Then you have to run back here and if you don't you're it and you have to find me. And Uncle Lock."

"Uncle Lock?" Sam repeated, unable to stop himself. Josephine nodded and pointed to Sherlock by way of explanation but Sam was already looking at him with a wide grin. To his utter amazement, Sherlock was blushing. Sam hadn't thought that was physically possible until now.

"So you need help taking care of a– what? Two year old?"

"You mock me now," Sherlock said in a dark voice, narrowing his eyes. "I _cannot_ get her to sleep. I've tried everything – feeding her, wearing her out… I even turned the television on, but she won't sit down and watch it!"

"And you can't take her outside because it's piss– pouring rain," Sam said, to which Sherlock only rolled his eyes with his _obvious_ expression. "What about Mrs. Hudson?"

"At her sister's," Sherlock replied shortly.

"And John?"

"At work."

"Oh, well, I'm glad you didn't pull _me_ from work for this then," Sam replied and Sherlock's scowl deepened. "She's two, Sherlock. Just, I don't know, put your foot down."

"_You_ try it."

Sam raised his eyebrows.

"I'm not the one in charge."

There was a light tugging on his hand and he looked down again.

"You have to hide!" Josephine reminded him. "If you win, you can have biscuits."

"Biscuits?" Sam asked. "What kind of biscuits?"

"The kind with the chocolate on."

"The kind with–" He knew one other person who called them that. "HobNobs? Sherlock, what exactly have you been feeding her?"

"We had a 'tea party'," Sherlock said, and Sam heard the inverted commas.

"So you gave her chocolate HobNobs? What did she have for lunch?"

"That _was_ lunch."

"Did you– did you give her actual tea? Milk and sugar and all that?"

"She wouldn't drink it unsweetened."

Sam closed his eyes.

"So you gave a two year old sweets and caffeine for lunch? And you wonder why she's a ball of energy?"

"It's just biscuits."

"It's just _sugar_. That's all they are! And tea, too!"

Sherlock gave him an affronted look that quickly turned to pleading when Josephine reiterated her position on playing hide-and-seek. Sam bit down on a smile, knowing it wouldn't go unnoticed.

"All right," he said to the little girl with his hand still caught in her small fingers. "I will hide, and so will," he looked up with a grin, "Uncle Lock."

Sherlock sighed, holding his hands up, shaking his head.

"Between the two of us, we can wear her out, Sherlock."

"No," Josephine said and he looked down to the cheekiest grin he'd ever seen on a toddler's face before.

"You're on," he told her.

"You'll be sorry," Sherlock said.

* * *

><p>John frowned as he climbed the stairs; the flat was suspiciously silent. The lights were on – he'd seen them from the street – but there were no sounds coming from above. He supposed it could be Sherlock in one of his I'm-not-speaking-now moods. He'd been energetic that morning, although not quite what John would term talkative. Unless moaning counted as being talkative. He grinned to himself and wondered if Tricia or Henry had come by to pick up Jo yet. John hoped so – there were a few things he wanted to do and have done to him that evening.<p>

He unlocked the door and eased it open carefully then stopped in surprise, raising his eyebrows. Jo was sitting on a blanket in front of the fireplace, playing quietly and happily with some toys. She looked up at him with a bright smile when he came in and John smiled back automatically. Jo put a finger to her lips and hissed an emphatic "shh" – although she needn't have done so.

Sherlock was sprawled in his chair and Sam was curled up in John's, both of them fast asleep. John stared at them for a moment – Sherlock's head had lolled down onto his left shoulder and his left hand dangled over the arm of the chair, so he must have been trying to prop his head up. Sam was sitting sideways, one leg over the arm of John's chair, the other resting on the floor to brace himself. Both of them were breathing slowly and deeply and hadn't stirred at all when he came in.

John shrugged off his wet coat and toed off his shoes before holding a hand out to Jo. She clambered to her feet and toddled over to him, raising her arms. John picked her up, settling her on one hip.

"They needed naps," she whispered, leaning up to press her lips against his ear so he could hear her.

"I see that," John murmured. "Why?"

"Playing made them tired."

John raised his eyebrows again and repressed a snicker.

"Did Uncle Lock make you tea?" he asked. Jo shook her head so John carried her into the kitchen. She snuggled up against him, resting her head on his shoulder.

"How about... ravioli with sauce?" he asked. He could make the pasta and heat up the tomato sauce one handed, so he was glad when Jo responded with:

"Yes, please."

"Did you have fun with Uncle Lock?"

"Yes, thank you."

John grinned to himself as he glanced back at the two sleeping figures in the living room. Sherlock had even started snoring lightly.

_Destroyed a psychopathic criminal genius but defeated by a toddler_, he sniggered to himself. He was already planning on never letting Sherlock live it down. Jo wasn't _that_ difficult to look after. She was only two, after all.


End file.
